


Camelot Murder Squad

by Fictionista654



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26402851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fictionista654/pseuds/Fictionista654
Summary: When Merlin Wyllt joins the Camelot Murder Squad, Arthur Pendragon's life changes in unexpected ways.Heavily inspired by Tana French's masterpiece, "The Dublin Murder Squad" series.
Relationships: Gwen/Morgana (Merlin), Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	Camelot Murder Squad

The day Arthur Pendragon met Merlin Wyllt, it rained; a horrid, driving rain that splashed out of the gutters and ruined everyone’s shoes. Because of this sudden storm, Arthur’s car refused to start, and he was forced onto public transportation like some sort of proletariat.

As he sat on the bus, dully racing raindrops on the window across from him, he didn’t know that today his life would change forever. That today he would receive a career-defining case, one with the power to save his life or end it. 

He knew that the new Murder Squad detective was starting today, pulled from Domestic Violence not a week ago and two years out from being a floater. Arthur remembered those floater days; trudging about in uniform, hopping from department to department with the bright-eyed hope that one of them would stick any day now.

At the moment, his thoughts were not on Merlin or on work at all. He was thinking rather hard about his sister Morgana. They had spoken on the phone the night before, and some things had been said would would have been better left unsaid. Oh, well. Such was life. You blurted things out and regretted them not a moment later. 

Arthur considered himself a pragmatic person. He saw no use in worrying about things that could not be changed. In his opinion, it was what made him such a good Murder detective. Losses rolled off his back, and he approached each case as if it were his first.

A week ago, he’d tied up a particularly nasty situation in Ealdor. A family argument gone wrong: a child who’d stabbed their parent. The boy had been dull and priggish, and had not seemed to understand that he was under arrest for murder.

“Can I go yet?” he’d said, and Gwen Smith, Arthur’s partner, had had to explain that no, he could not go, because there were three witnesses who’d seen him stick a knife into his mother at half-past three the day before.

The bus let Arthur off a five minute walk away from Camelot Castle, and trudged along the wet pavement with his umbrella held up over his head. In the courtyard garden, the flowers all looked a trifle over-watered. Feeling a bit over-watered himself, he was sympathetic.

When Arthur got into the office, he realized that he was the first person there. He was often early to work, but usually Leon would be there already, typing up case reports in the corner. The room was dark, and Arthur flicked on the lights, which came to life with a dull buzz.

At his desk, Arthur stowed his umbrella and fell back into his chair. He had plenty to do, loads of bureaucratic nonsense that left him even more drained than the trickiest murder. Why didn’t killers ever think about the paperwork? 

Not before long, Arthur was deep into his stack of papers, signing some things and checking over others. He barely noticed the room filling up around him, though he nodded at each detective as they came in.

Leon was first, and he made a wry face when he saw that Arthur was already there. Next was Lancelot, his dark hair wet from the rain. Clearly, he’d forgotten his umbrella, a mistake Arthur would never make. Gwen’s hair was dry when she came in, though Arthur would not expect anything less of her. 

She sat at her desk, which was kitty-cornered to Arthur’s, and poked him on the leg. 

“Have you gotten a start on the Ealdor case?”

Arthur grunted and shook his head. He likely wouldn’t reach it until the afternoon.

When Percival entered, he announced, “It’s raining,” and everyone looked at him.

“Really?” said Arthur, finally glancing up from his papers. “D’you think?”

Percival blushed and shrugged and trundled to his seat.

As usual, Gwaine was late, and he arrived humming an annoying little tune, which continued until everyone shouted at him to stop. 

By the time the office was full, Arthur had gotten done with a large chunk of papers, but he still had a stack twice the size of the first one to get through. Was the paperwork breeding in the middle of the night? he wondered. It was the only explanation.

“Attention,” Killgharrah announced at a quarter to one, and Arthur gratefully looked up from his papers. Any distraction was a welcome one, even the grizzled superintendent.

“Say hello to Detective Wyllt,” Killgharrah continued, shoving forward a gangly man with enormous ears. For some reason, he was grinning from ear-to-ear. 

“Hello,” said Detective Wyllt, giving them a wave. Arthur and Gwen exchanged an amused glance. They both knew Wyllt was only a one or two cases away from losing this bright-eyed and bushy-tailed demeanor. 

After that, work returned to normal, and Arthur was beginning to think that he would get through the day without anything happening, when Killgharrah appeared once again.

“Pendragon, Smith,” he barked. “My office.”

Sighing, Arthur pushed back his chair and rose. When he stretched, his spine gave several satisfying cracks.

Gwen winced. “I hate when you do that,” she said as they walked through the Murder Squad office. “It puts me off my lunch.”

“Trust a girl to be sensitive,” said Arthur, but Gwen never took the bait. 

“Trust a Pendragon to be an arse,” she said mildly. 

The inside of Killgharrah’s office was sort of how Arthur would picture a dragon’s hord. Metals lined the wall, bright gold and silver medallions hanging off of bits of dark-colored ribbon. There were piles of books, some of them dusty, and stacks of empty takeaway containers. Knick-knacks, like snowglobes and collectibles, filled sections of the shelves.

“It’s a good one,” Killgharrah told them as soon as they walked in. He was already sitting behind his desk and puffing on his pipe.

Arthur stiffened. To Killgharrah, a good one meant absolutely fucking terrible. The last time he’d said it was a good one, it had been a little girl with her tongue ripped out.  
“Listen to this,” Killgharrah said, and he started telling them about the case.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'm so tired and there's so much going on, and I thought it would be fun to start this fic as a release. I hope to update every Friday or so.


End file.
